


Pink and Wrapped in Silk

by winethroughwater



Category: American Horror Story: Freak Show
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:12:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes between Elsa and Bette (and Dot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This may be AU-ish in the sense that I'm not including Stanley and Maggie and their freak collecting. I think Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities is interesting enough all on its own without them. The chapters aren't in any particular order, just one-shots as they occur to me.

When the twins start to fight, it’s so sudden and strange that it takes two bars of “You Are My Sunshine” for the troupe to realize it’s a fight and not some sort of fit.

 

There’s no yelling, just a gasp here (nails connecting with cheeks) and a grunt there (heels scraping at shins). 

 

But there’s blood and tears and a rolling knot of limbs in the dust, knocking over chairs and sending the pinheads into a frenzy. 

 

It ends with Eve clutching them to her chest, pinning their arms against their sides.

 

They’re lifted off the ground then balancing drunkenly on tip-toes when Elsa barks, “My tent!” and storms through the canvas without looking back at them.

 

***************************************

 

Settled on her sofa, they seem resigned to a standstill as she paces in front of them.

 

Dot’s neck cranes at an awkward angle so her face is as far from her sister’s as it ever will be. 

 

“What were you thinking?!” 

 

Bette worries her thumb nail with her teeth and stares at the worn rug beneath Elsa’s heels instead of answering.     

 

Their chests heave in tandem and neither of them moves to brush the dirt from their knees or to right the torn hem of their dress.

 

“Show in an hour and you look like you’ve been in some—”  Elsa pauses just long enough to tally the damage, the red furrows down Dot’s throat, the tiny well of blood on Bette’s bottom lip  “—some back alley brawl!”

 

“ _Well_?” Elsa reaches for her cigarettes, taps the pack against her thigh harder than absolutely necessary.  “Who’s going to explain?”

 

She sees a look pass between them over the flame of her lighter as she inhales. 

 

On the exhale, Bette whines, “Dot, _don’t_.”

 

“I should tell her,” Dot spits, staring daggers at her sister now.  “Tell her how in _love_ you are—disgusting.  Maybe she’d stop sneakin’ into our tent all the time.”

 

“I hate you.” 

 

***************************************

 

Elsa leaves her Lucky Strike to burn down in a glass while Bette tucks her chin against her own shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut.

 

“Is this true, liebchen?”

 

Such a pretty flush is burning its way up Bette’s throat that Elsa knows her answer already. 

 

When she finally nods, Elsa can’t help but laugh—and laugh again when those dark, doe eyes meet hers, confused and the slightest bit hopeful.

 

“You’re not mad?”

 

“No, my darling.  Not mad.”  She strokes the back of her fingers down Bette’s cheek and the girl’s eyes flutter closed as if on cue.  Her thumb across Bette’s swollen lower lip elicits the expected sigh. 

 

Somehow Elsa knows what that sigh feels like at the corner of her mouth but she can’t remember how or why just now.

 

She drops a quick kiss to the top of Bette’s head and murmurs, “Flattered,” before running her hands down her robe and shrugging dismissively.

 

“Now.  Go,” she says.  “Clean yourselves up and no more of this fisticuffs nonsense.  Ask Ethel to help you with your makeup.”  She reaches out to rub at a dark spot on Dot’s chin only to have her hand swatted away as usual.  “To cover those bruises.”

 

***************************************

 

She’s putting on her own makeup later when she realizes Bette wasn’t wearing that silly blue ribbon in her hair, that it must have been lost in the scuffle. 

 

***************************************

 

Somewhere between the third and fourth drink, the familiar blue satin is coiling in her pocket like a snake.  Her fingers wind through it for the hundredth time tonight.  She can’t quite decide if it’s the lure of discord or devotion—or the heady mix of both—that sends her out of her tent to return it.


	2. Matinee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elsa doesn't do matinees; Bette asks nicely.

Elsa barely spared a glance over her shoulder when she heard the tent flap rustle behind her.

 

Seeing Bette—and Dot—she went back to the account book spread out on the desk in front of her.

 

“I’m busy now, liebchen,” she called.  “What do you want?”

 

The pathetic number she’d scratched down at the bottom of the ledger had her in a foul mood—and the humidity, oppressive even in the shadowed recesses of her tent, wasn’t helping.

 

“A matinee.”

 

“What?” Elsa turned in her chair to glare at the twins.  “We don’t do matinees.  You know that.”  No doubt this was Dot’s idea, trying to show off again--even though it was voiced in Bette’s soft drawl.

 

“It sounded even dumber when you said it out loud,” Dot muttered in that way the sisters were so prone to when they were arguing with each other.

 

Confused, Elsa glanced from one face to the other.  Twin pairs of chocolate-colored eyes fixed on her, but, as usual, there the similarity ended.

 

As much as she wanted to shake the arrogant smirk right off Dot’s face, Elsa found it hard to focus on anything other than the nervous way Bette was pulling her lower lip between her teeth--such pretty coral flesh, swelling as they bit down.  

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Bette whispered.  

 

Elsa had no doubt this comment was directed at her and her alone.

 

The twins shifted their weight from one foot to the other.  Bette’s fingers fidgeted in the well-worn fabric of their dress, the movement bunching the floral skirt up to reveal just a fraction more of her pale calf.  

 

Elsa swallowed, catching on.

 

When Bette looked shyly up at her, actually batting her lashes, Elsa laughed, low and throaty, at the clumsy seduction, rolled the pen she’d been writing with over her fingers.

 

“You want to _fuck_ in the middle of the day,” she said matter-of-factly.  

 

She liked the way even the most banal of her curses still sent a flush up Bette’s throat, liked the sharp little sound the girl made and the way her tongue suddenly darted out to wet her lips.

 

Maybe more calculating than clumsy, her Bette.

 

Elsa tossed the pen down.  

 

The show would still be just as in the red in a few hours.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Please_ ,” Bette whined.  Her hips canted forward as Elsa’s hands rucked up her skirt.

 

“What a little monster I’ve created.”  Elsa enunciated each syllable so they blew warm against Bette’s ear, smiled as her words had their desired effect:  Bette nodding and squeezing her eyes shut as Elsa slipped a hand between her legs.  

 

Elsa graced Bette with an appreciative little hum at how deliciously damp she found her cotton-clad mound, knew it had absolutely nothing to do with the Florida heat.

 

Her fingers pushed the fabric aside just enough to make Bette hiss her name, found her just as warm and wet as always.

 

“It _is_ dire,” Elsa’s voice teased.  Her fingers teased just the same, stroking through more intimate lips.

 

Bette shuddered as Elsa scraped her thumb nail over her clit.  She grabbed Elsa’s shoulder to steady herself.  

 

Another hand fell to Elsa’s forearm.

 

“It’s all I’ve--” Elsa’s finger slid easily inside, silky walls clenching around it immediately.  “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I woke up this morning,” Bette finished.

 

“My”--a kiss to Bette’s temple-- “poor”--her jaw-- “angel”--and finally her mouth.  

 

Elsa curled her finger and the girls’ whole body hitched against her.

 

* * *

 

 

Elsa was faced with a dilemma.  

 

She knew the way Bette would wiggle and squirm and clutch at her hair if she made her climb on her desk, knew exactly how she would taste on her tongue when they came.  

 

Too much noise for the middle of the day--Bette could never be quiet when she used her mouth.

 

She was tempted to dig through a certain trunk, to find the biggest cock she owned and take her on all fours, to bury it to the hilt again and again until they cried for her to stop.  

 

But, really, it was just too hot for such things.  Another day.

 

* * *

 

 

She slipped her hand away, then sucked languidly on her finger.  Bette’s eyes grew even darker as she watched.

 

Elsa arched an eyebrow, made a decision.   

 

* * *

 

“Show me.”

 

Two foreheads furrowed.

 

* * *

 

 

She pushed the girls down on one end of the velvet sofa and took a seat in an over-stuffed chair just out of arm’s reach.  She crossed her legs and savored the subtle friction the movement created.  

 

“But I want you,” Bette complained, as Elsa reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes.  “I could’ve done this myself--before breakfast.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?”

 

She generally didn’t mind when Bette turned petulant because she pouted in such a pretty fashion--but she would have none of that today.  

 

Bette frowned.  It was nothing compared to the look on her sister’s face.  

 

“We are not going to sit here and touch ourselves for your amusement,” Dot said.

 

“I wouldn’t call it ‘amusement’ exactly.”  

 

Both girls stared intently at her; neither was immune to Elsa’s suggestive tone--despite Dot’s frequent protests to the contrary.  

 

She exhaled a puff of smoke, flicked the cigarette so a bit of ash trailed off onto the rug.

 

“Either you pull up your skirt and spread your legs or you go away and stop pestering me.”

 

The girls’ heads tilted towards one another, communicating in a way Elsa wasn’t privy to.  But from the smile that now graced Bette’s lips to the way Dot’s chin dropped, she knew how the debate had been settled.  She wondered, not for the first time, what Bette had been giving her sister in return for all their little rendezvous.  

 

Dot closed her eyes and sighed in resignation.

 

Bette’s eyes, however, were fixed on Elsa’s.  Her lip was caught between her teeth again--and for the briefest second, Elsa wanted to replace them with her own, to nip until she drew blood.

 

But Bette’s fingers were steadily raising her skirt--handful by handful--to lay bunched around her waist.  

 

When she started to peel her panties down her hip, Elsa said, “No. Leave them on.”

 

* * *

 

Elsa took a slow drag off her cigarette and appreciated the sight laid out in front of her.

 

Their light peach dress was raised to their waist, their chest heaving in anticipation--such perfect peaches of breasts beneath, plump and ever so bite-able yet firm against her palms.  With coral nipples the same shade as Bette’s lips, peaks that begged to be pinched and sucked.  

 

Elsa plucked at the pearl buttons of her own blouse, revealing the camisole underneath.  She slid her hand up her throat and cursed the heat again.  

 

She stubbed out her cigarette.

 

* * *

 

“What should I do now?” Bette asked.  

 

Her hand was lying on her bare thigh, mere inches from where it wanted to be.

 

“Pretend your hand is my hand,” Elsa suggested.  “Think about the way you like me to touch you.”

 

Bette nodded.

 

Her hand disappeared inside her panties, but Elsa could still see its outline, her movements, through the fabric.  There was something utterly erotic about watching this debauched little piece of Americana--performed for her pleasure.

 

“I like when you tease--just a little bit--before going inside,” Bette whispered.

 

Her hand moved slowly, fingers obviously stroking up and down the length of her labia.

 

Bette squirmed against the sofa and adjusted the angle of her hand.  She moaned and Elsa recognized it as the sound she made when she entered her.  She knew that Bette had slid a finger, her middle finger, inside herself.  The movements obscured by the white cotton sped up, obviously the result of her finger dipping in, pulling out.  

 

A small, familiar frown started to form on Bette’s face.

 

“Just one?” Elsa scolded, recognizing the girl’s growing frustration.

 

“Not enough,” Bette confessed.

 

“Then use two.”

 

* * *

 

Bette gasped.  

 

“That’s right, darling.” Elsa smiled.  “Show Elsa how you like to be touched.”

 

The motions of her hand became more frantic.

 

“Come for me, mein Schatz.”

 

Bette’s hips rose off the couch as her whole body seemed to arch.

 

* * *

 

When they came, it was a chorus.

 

* * *

 

Elsa had her own trousers unzipped by the time she straddled the girls’ thighs.  

 

She took Bette’s hand, still wet and trembling, and guided it inside the silk of her own underwear.  

 

Bette didn’t need any further instruction.  She thrust two fingers just as far as they would go.  She pulled them halfway out then returned them twice as hard, earned a breathless litany of “Yes, mein liebe, my sweet girl.”

 

Bette’s mouth found Elsa’s neck and sucked a trail from the hollow of her throat to just below her ear.  

 

She was distracted enough to miss the way Dot’s hand gripped her hip and held her steady.

 

Bette’s teeth briefly caught Elsa’s earlobe before lisping:  “I love it when you let me fuck you.”  It left Elsa no choice but to use her own fingers to rub rough circles around her center, to grip Bette’s wrist and make her movements even rougher.

 

* * *

 

 

She cried out louder than she would have liked in the middle of the day--came harder than she would have thought possible in this heat.  

 

* * *

 

Elsa allowed herself the luxury of laying draped tiredly over the twins afterwards--until Bette’s nimble fingers twisted inside still-too sensitive flesh.  

 

She started to protest, only to be cut off by Bette:  “You can’t forget the encore.”

 

She braced her hands on the girls’ shoulders, started to move her hips again, chasing just the right angle--and thanked the heavens that the fate of the show relied neither on Bette’s singing nor her jokes.

 


	3. Tone Deaf

It’s a rare opportunity. 

 

She doesn’t often get to linger in Elsa’s tent where it smells of stage makeup, of expensive perfume, and the sharp bitterness of whatever Elsa had been smoking earlier.

 

The room’s single lamp plays off the glass shards of the chandelier above them.  It casts little dancing diamonds of light against all the satin and velvet and brass, everything it feels so good to run her fingers over. 

 

In this light she can’t even see how the edges are starting to wear and fray. 

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t often get to linger over Elsa herself, to study her when she’s this unguarded. 

 

There are moments when she finds just the right rhythm with her fingers, murmurs just the right mix of sweet and shocking against Elsa’s breast.

 

There are moments, but they are brief and Elsa never falls asleep afterwards.

 

* * *

 

 

She toys less carefully with the strap of the lavender gown that's fallen down Elsa’s shoulder, whispers, “Elsa.”

 

She has no doubt that Elsa will send her back to their tent like she always does if she wakes her up now. 

 

But when else is she going to ask?

 

Besides, Dot will only pretend to be asleep for so long.  They haven’t negotiated for this particular circumstance, and Lord only knows what she’ll demand in return.

 

“Elsa,” she says it louder this time, adds the pinch of her fingers into Elsa’s shoulder.  “Wake up.”

 

There’s a sleepy, grumpy hum that makes her smile despite her nerves and a hand starting to stir beneath her pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you love me?” she asks.

 

_Of course, she doesn’t._

A weight lifts off her chest and Elsa's face is lost for a moment behind a curtain of damp blonde hair.

 

“Of course.  I love all my monsters.”  

 

* * *

 

 

She can’t quite look away from that devastating mouth, rubbed clean now save for a bright smudge at one corner. 

 

“Oh.”

 

 _I told you_.  

 

She’ll scrub those crimson stains off her ribs and wrist and thighs and throat just a little harder tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

Elsa raises up on her elbows, puts even more distance between them—creates an unimpeded view directly down the slip of silk she’s wearing.

 

It’s incredibly distracting and almost certainly calculated, as is the hand that reaches between them to where she’s still tender enough to shiver at the barest touch.

 

Elsa’s head dips in a familiar way and she can’t help but tilt her own to meet it.

 

Elsa says, “But I love you most of all,” and it’s better than any kiss could have been.  

 

Elsa adds, “Because you make such pretty noises when you come,” and it’s easier than ever to prove her right.

  

* * *

 

 

“I thought I was tone-deaf.”

 

Elsa laughs and it blows warm against the scar her sister had made just below her collarbone. 

  
“As a post.  But you fuck like an angel.”


End file.
